Island Love

by Curtis Bennett

  “Okay,” I said chewing down on my delicious and tender slice of veal. “I’ll keep a low profile and we’ll get that property.”

  “And try to enjoy yourself while you’re down there, okay?”

  “Sure thing,” I murmured.

  “Meet some of the local girls down there, you know what I mean. After all, you are my handsome nephew. You’re thirty-two years old, well-educated, successful, and you’re single, you know what I mean,” he repeated.

  “Yes, be sociable and approachable. “

  “That’s exactly what I meant,” he smiled, reaching over and rubbing his hand playfully through my hair.

  We wrapped up our delectable meal with a generous serving of Orange Soufflés with Orange Sauce for dessert then departed.

  We had not planned on it, but an hour later we decided to attend a ‘Gown & Bikini’ fashion show at a nearby hotel featuring 12 former Miss West Indies beauty contest winners. Our company had received two complimentary tickets to attend a month earlier from the sponsors of the event. The former contest winners hailed from Antiqua, the United States Virgin Islands, The British Virgin Islands, Haiti, Jamaica, Cuba, Puerto Rico, Barbados, the Dominican Republic, the Bahamas, Martinique, Tobago, Trinidad, Grenada, and the British Virgin Islands. Talk about a collection of beautiful women of color. All of them appeared heaven sent but only one truly captivated my attention.

  As I waited for her country of origin to be announced I eyed her considerably as numerous cameras, including cellphone cameras, flashed repeatedly as the models were individually introduced onstage. There was applause and a few cat whistles tossed in by overenthusiastic and unsophisticated admirers. Finally, she took center stage. Then came the announcement of her name. It was Leïla Renee Johns-St Martin of Antiqua.

  I was definitely bowled over by this woman’s natural beauty, her enchanting eyes, her long jet black hair, and regal mannerism. If ever there were a princess above all other princesses, this was the one, in my eyes. The way she walked so confidently and the way she carried herself was befitting of one bred in royalty. She was in no way stuffy or aloof, just the opposite. She appeared poised and warm in nature. Her eyes registered a level of humility you just did not associate with one bred in privilege. I had to admit that I was smitten.

  The elegant cinnamon-brown form fitting gown she wore and matching long gloves and brown pumps suited her well. Sparkling crystal earrings dangled loosely below each of her ears like miniature chandeliers. Man, how I longed to be close enough to inhale her sweet fragrance. I was completely mesmerized. If she wasn’t royalty she certainly looked the part tonight.

  After the fashion show my uncle and I joined other fortunate guests with backstage passes for an after show gathering with the lovely models and their sponsors. Once backstage, I went all out of my way, without actually seeming to, to keep an eye out for Leïla, the beauty from Antiqua. To my dismay, I could not locate her in the robust crowd that had gathered. After a while I gave up and my uncle and I departed.

  “Did you enjoy yourself tonight?” my uncle asked me as we rode along the coast in his rented limo.

  “I most certainly did,” I quipped.

  “I see that one particular beauty seemed to grab your attention more than any of the others,” he revealed, smiling.

  “Was it that obvious?” I asked.

  “Yes, it certainly was,” he chuckled. “Frankly, I’d say it was beyond obvious.”

  “Whoa,” was all I could say in response with a chuckle. “I guess I’m busted.”

  “Hell, perhaps we ought to be sending you to Antiqua instead of the Virgin Islands,” he teased.

  I just leaned back and smiled.

  “See, that’s what I’m talking about,” he continued, wearing the broadest of smiles. “Yes, our businesses has lined your deep pockets well, and believe me, you’ve earned it Marcus. But what I’d really like to see is some lovely young woman put a smile on your face the way this woman put on you tonight. With all the money in the world, your aunt and I could never put a smile on your face like that. Now, gimme five on that,” he laughed.

  I laid an enthusiastic five, or manly hand clap, on his hand with my hand, and then we snapped our fingers in unison. Yes, the woman was all of that and more, I thought to myself.

  Lunch went over well at our own Almond Street Café the following day. Uncle Kurt was well pleased with the food and the service. As part owner, he met with the staff after lunch and complimented them on doing a great job. He also shared with them future plans for expanding the business. Afterwards, we drove to Miami and had dinner and a brief meeting with management there before returning to Ft Lauderdale around nine that night. Back at my condo I wasted no time packing for my trip to St Thomas the following afternoon. Before we parted ways, my uncle left me the name of a man he wanted me to contact there after my arrival in St Thomas.

  Once I had everything ready and staged, I plopped myself across the wide bed and grabbed the remote to check out what movies were showing on Cinemax and HBO and Showtime. A big movie watcher, whenever my time allowed for it, I had subscribed to all of the premium movie channels. After flipping through a half dozen selections I settled on “How Stella Got Her Groove Back” by Terry McMillan.

  The movie put me in a frame of mind I had not experienced in some time. A workaholic, I rarely took the time to get involved with the local entertainment scene. Yes, I did the business-giving-back-to-the-community type stuff, and we sponsored a local youth baseball team, but I never got involved on a personal level. After all, I wanted to remain on top of my business game and more than anything else, I did not want to disappoint my aunt and uncle who had put a lot of trust and faith in my abilities. They were the ones who put me through college.

  As for outside activities there was one, my Gung-fu classes. Martial arts had always been a love of mine since the age of eight after I saw my first Bruce Lee flick. His style, dynamic personality, and mastery of the art had left a deep impression on me. His discipline was something I took into the business as well. I not only wanted to be good, I wanted to be the best at what I did, just like Bruce Lee. But watching this romantic movie, with its tropical setting and lovely sensuous star reignited a primal longing inside of me. It was during my viewing that I realized I was missing out on so much and that business shouldn’t be the sum of my life. Romance and adventure had to figure in there. Passion was somewhere in there too. In the world I had become so accustomed to and comfortable with my passion so far had been spreadsheets, travel logs, and real estate contracts. This was no way for a person to exist, I concluded. I finally understood what I believed my uncle was trying to get across to me.

  After the movie, and a good yawn, I set the clock, hit the lights with a tap of my hand on the base of the lamp, then rolled over and fell asleep. That night I dreamt about how Marcus got his groove. Of course, the gorgeous model from Antiqua was my leading lady. Pink sandy beaches, Saga palms and coconut-laden palm trees, an inviting deep blue ocean, a flock of pelicans flying overhead in a V formation, a luxurious vacation resort, some Jamaican Rum & Coke over crushed ice, freshly grilled Tilapia and butter-seared jumbo shrimp and scallops with a hint of lemon as well, were all there; props in my dream. In totality the props themselves were enough to make it a dream worth visiting. Once my bikini-clad island beauty was added to the mix, it was no longer just a dream but a paradise and one I never wanted to wake up from. Unfortunately I did when the alarm clock blared like a nine alarm fire callout some seven hours later.

  Crawling out of bed I found my way into the bathroom and doused my face with cold water. Shaking it off, I dried my face with a towel. Entering my dedicated training room I lifted weights for about twenty minutes. Usually I’d lifted for an hour but I wasn’t looking for intensity today.

  Next, I practiced my martial arts; focusing on close-quarters fighting techniques. I wrapped up my morning routine with a refreshing warm shower. Breakfast would be bought on the run. Though I usually dined at my
favorite airport café before I took flight, I’d change my routine today because of my afternoon flight. It would be three more hours before I needed to be at the airport. Since our restaurant chain only served breakfast on Fridays and Saturdays, I decided to drop in at a local Denny’s restaurant for breakfast. I ordered hominy grits, steak and eggs, and a glass of orange juice. Surprisingly, the wait was short.

  I had just washed down my first forkful of food with orange juice when I spied one of my martial arts friends at the entrance as though he was waiting on something or someone. It was Dorian Middlebrook. He was one of the few sparring partners I got to know on a name to name basis at the dojo. Outside of his passion for the martial arts and his job as a Child Protective Investigator, I knew little else about him. I immediately waved him over and invited him to join me.

  “So, what brings you here for breakfast Dorian?” I asked, leveling another fork load of food to consume.

  “I took the day off to take care of a few things,” he began.

  “Getting an early start, I decided to order breakfast at the take-out counter but now that you are here, do you mind me joining you.”

  “By all means,” I said, happy to share this time with him.

  “Good, because I already told the take-out counter that I had changed my mind and was having breakfast with someone already seated.”

  “Well, I’m glad that you decided to join me.”

  “And what about you Marcus? What brings you here?”

  “Just grabbing a bite to eat before I take off for the Virgin Islands this afternoon,” I replied wiping my mouth with a napkin.

  “The Virgin Isles, eh,” he came back with an amusing smile.

  I nodded, chewing a mouthful of food.

  “You’re going on vacation or something?”

  “Part vacation, part business,” I answered as I continued to digest my food.

  “Which isle are you going to? St Croix, St Thomas?”

  “St Thomas.”

  “St Thomas,” he echoed softly. “Nice place to live but I would not want to visit there,” he said with a muted gaze.

  “Don’t you mean a nice place to visit but I wouldn’t want to live there?” I asked probingly.

  “No. I meant exactly what I said, my friend,” he insisted.

  Leaning back in my chair I considered his words carefully before saying, “Okay Dorian, let’s have it. What are you trying to say?”

  By now Dorian’s food order arrived. He had ordered pancakes with pecans and sausage, scrambled eggs, and toast to go but would now eat in.

  “Look, I know you’re a bro and all and can kick a mule’s ass two miles down the road. And I know that I’m just another college-educated white boy, but you be careful down there. Real careful,” he warned as he sliced up his pancakes and poured melted butter, then hot syrup over them.

  “Is there something I missed in my vacation brochure?” I asked not really giving much consideration to his warning.

  “My cousin was a career naval officer…in the navy, of course,” he began, pausing long enough from chewing his food to finish his statement before chewing again. “We had an interesting conversation a few weeks ago about his travels. He told me that the navy had long ceased allowing its warships to visit that port of call because of the robbing, muggings, and the callous murdering of our sailors visiting there.”

  “I did not know that,” I said listening with a lot more interest now.

  “Yeah, he said that some of the sailors would get drunk and wander off into areas that were not the safest for tourist and meet with a bad fate. There were even incidents where prostitutes were paid to entice these guys to venture into these areas where they would be jumped on by gangs in waiting.”

  “That’s good information to have Dorian, thanks,” I said in reply, then echoed, “Good information.”

  “Check it out on the internet when you get the chance,” he added returning his eyes and interest to his pancakes and sausage.

  “I will,” I assured him as I consumed the last forkful of steak and eggs. Knowing local crime statistics was just as important as any other aspect of my business dealings when it came to scouting new property to potentially buy. Demographics were great indicators for people like me in deciding whether a company should or should not build in a certain location. The information I had looked up initially on St Thomas mentioned none of these things. Perhaps it was because these crimes did not occur in the business district where most tourists usually restricted themselves to. And Dorian did say that these sailors usually wandered off into areas they should not have been in. I would take that into account when I resumed my research in this very telling local statistic.

  Finally our conversation turned to the subject we both loved best, the martial arts. We talked about the subtle changes in the art itself, the new rules governing competition, the up and coming new stars of martial arts cinema, and we talked about the late great Bruce Lee.

  After our most informative conversation, we shook hands and parted.

  Chapter Three

  Omens. Metaphorically speaking, omens usually gave advance notice that one could expect to enjoy a pleasant and sun-filled day. On the other hand, it could also forewarn of storms brewing over the horizon or bad luck waiting around the corner. For most people it signified impending doom of some sort and on some heightened level. Altogether, I took what my friend had shared with me in stride, though. Besides, I was not sure if this hostility was directed towards all visiting sailors or just the Caucasian ones.

  My friend Dorian never said. Though the island was predominantly Black, it mattered not for in any culture, or predominant race, you’d always find a few bad apples. But being a man with a statistic’s background, I wanted things broken down so that I could dissect it, analyze it, and then interpret it. Only then would it have some significance to me. Otherwise, it would be of no concern to me. Right now the details given to me were a bit sketchy.

  The ride to the airport was a breeze due to light traffic and the holiday. It was Veteran’s Day. I parked my Mercedes in the valet overnight parking garage and immediately enlisted the services of a porter to cart off my luggage. As with most major airports post 9/11, I went through the mandatory security checks and endured the intrusive scanning process before I was allowed to proceed on. With ticket and passport in hand, and my laptop, I reached my departure terminal, after the longest of walks, then gravitated towards a roll of sparsely occupied chairs and took a seat on a cold molded plastic chair. FOX Headline News played on the mounted television monitor above. With my laptop resting on my lap, my arms crossed on top of it, I leaned back in the chair and directed my attention to the monitor. It wouldn’t be long now before I was airborne, I thought.

  Suddenly the monitor display went completely blank. A second later the words “Security Alert!” flashed across the black screen and continuously. Then there came an abrupt and urgent announcement on the intercom that all ticket holders were to leave the terminal area swiftly, orderly, and right away. We were instructed to return to the screening area and wait there for further instructions.

  Not knowing what to make of this, I joined in with others who made a hasty retreat back to the screening area. Most ticket holders cooperated while others complained or meandered about insisting that they be told what was going on before they complied. I understood their mindset to some degree. No one wanted to miss their flight. Not in the least, me. But in these uncertain days and times, when security apparatus instructs me to clear an area I am clearing the area. It could be an explosive device nearby or machinegun totting terrorist in hiding.

  Within seconds of the announcement armed security personnel converged on the area, some to assist in ushering the herd of passengers to the screening area, others fanning out as if in search of something or someone. Within minutes of their arrival the area was cleared of all ticket holders.

  At some point the screening area swelled to capacity. Anxious and curious ticket holders ma
de desperate inquiries while others said they hoped that someone would tell them what was going on. Someone else said that he had been texted by a relative saying that there had been a bomb threat and that SWAT, the FBI, and Homeland Security was getting involved. A few minutes later we saw a group of law enforcement officers with two sniffing canines in tow heading towards the terminal area. My only thought was how long this ordeal would take and how much of an inconvenience it would be.

  Turning, I made my way towards a full wall-length window for a better view of what was going on outside of the terminal. I could see numerous fire trucks, police cars; all with flashing red and blue lights, and law enforcement officers from various agencies gathering about. A few were holding shotguns. This was definitely a sign of the times, I thought.

  Because we had just been advised not to use our cellphones, I could not call anyone back at the office. The fear was that any number of cellphone frequencies could cause the bomb to detonate; that is if there was actually a bomb that would go off.

  As for omens, events were not looking all that good for me. First my friend’s warning at the restaurant about St Thomas and now this. Feeling helpless to influence events around me I decided to find a place I could grab a newspaper or magazine to read during my flight, that is, if we ever got off the ground. But I remained hopeful. Perhaps this was nothing more than another nail-biting bomb scare. A false alarm.

  With a carryon in hand, I made a diligent effort to ease my way through what seemed an ocean of people. Rounding a corner I froze abruptly and in sheer disbelief. I could not believe my eyes. Just an arm’s length away stood a collection of hot looking bronze beauties, some talking to one another, others with eyes glued to the airport’s arrival and departure monitors as if they were expecting their flight number to be posted any second. But all of the airport monitors read ‘Flight Delayed’.